


All the embroidered stars

by 35391291



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: Gen, Magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-05
Updated: 2016-11-05
Packaged: 2018-08-29 03:27:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8473651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/35391291/pseuds/35391291
Summary: Dark is her dress, dark is her hair, and darker is the spell that coils around her heart. If it all turns to dust, let them remember her name, woven into legend.
There is no Raven King. There is only Hannah.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This story runs parallel with [The language of memory](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8923855).

It all starts quietly. A desperate, yet practical attempt to destroy the darkness that gets in the way of everything else. Hannah's first, hesitant spells with water and mirrors work surprisingly well, and in time, they give her enough strength to try something else. Something that might change their small, familiar world. Magic is for everyone now, if they dare. She does, and she has to try.

At first, she fears magic will own and control her. In a way, it does. Looking into mirrors soon becomes looking into the darkness itself. And she knows what she will find there. The notion of it is both powerful and frightening, but inevitable. There is a strange path within, perhaps it was always there. And that might be worst part. She has always known, but still, it all comes as a surprise. At times, she feels too small and too weak for all this darkness. And sometimes, it is not enough. She might have to burn and fade, and walk into the abyss, with magic in her bloodstream.

She whispers a prayer to herself. After all, no one else can help her now. Dark is her dress, dark is her hair, and darker is the spell that coils around her heart. If it all turns to dust, let them remember her name, woven into legend.

There is nothing left to try, but this. Her quiet rage has carried her as far as she could go. She walks to what looks like the edge of the earth, past field, forest and sea. All is silent and desolate, as if the world had decided to hide, out of fear. It will not do. She has made magic her own, at last. But this is not the spell she wants to weave. Not anymore. She stands, motionless, at the beginning of everything. Her hand raised up in the air, a silent command. It lights up all the embroidered stars, born from the strength of a thousand needles. And, just like that, the darkness fades. It belongs to someone else now, and she lets go: a little feather, carried away by the wind. Black as the night, sharp like love.


End file.
